The Jerz Family Name: A Prickly Question

1999; by Dennis G. Jerz
The round-faced lady who sold sausages outside of the library was
Polish; I knew that much. The only reason I always asked for a Polish
sausage was because it wasn't spicy and came in a huge, stomach-filling
bun. I usually don't like to chit-chat when I'm hungry, but she was so
pleasant that I would play along as she tried to teach me Polish for "good
morning" or "good evening". One day I said something that
caught her fancy and delayed my lunch. I told her my name.

I once asked my grandfather whether our family name used to be something
like Jerzelsky or Jerzuluski, because it's awfully short for a Polish
name. But he told me that our real name used to be "Jez".
Someone changed it to "Jerz" when my ancestors emigrated around 1905.

I told the sausage lady that my father had once told me that his name
meant "farmer". In Latin class, I had read selections from Virgil's
Georgics -- poems that celebrate the farming life. Aha,
I had thought to myself, I wonder if my father knows that both his
names mean "farmer"... "Jez" must be a Polish form of "George."
This seemed odd to me... I never did feel particularly agricultural.
I mostly feel that eating is a simple business transaction: "For one lunchtime
sausage," says my body to me, "I'll let you work the rest of the afternoon
without bothering you. Deal?" I have no choice but to give in.

I still had a few minutes while the sausage cooked, so I asked, "What
does my name mean?"

The sausage lady averted her eyes and found something to do underneath
the counter. When she emerged again, her shoulders were shaking,
and she was trying to keep a straight face.

I rolled my eyes. Oh no, not again...

Every word processor I've ever used cheerfully flags my name, insulting
me in the process. Sometimes I even see papers written by students who
trust their spell-checkers so much they end up putting "Professor
Jerk" or "Professor Jeers" on the title page.

By the second or third grade, those jokes were old. The last time
I heard that one I fell off my dinosaur. Lots of other kids seemed
virtually insult-proof. Who could make fun of a no-frills name like
Steven Bell? Or the alluringly alliterative Amy Alexander? Even
Jeff Schnackenberg could tell everyone his name was German for "snake
mountain." Some kids didn't seem to be so fortunate. I remember
playing too rough with a younger kid who fell and chipped his tooth on
the monkey bars. For some reason my friends tried to show their
support for me by making fun of his name, calling him "The Domino" or
something like that. It didn't matter that, as an older kid, I should
have known better; or that his family went to my church; I joined in anyway.
One night twenty years later, I suddenly shot up in bed, drenched with
cold sweat. I had suddenly, inexplicably realized that the
kid I had injured and insulted was named Christian Domin -- "dominus"
being Latin for "lord". Damn... now that was a name!

Surely, the laughter of the round-faced vending cart lady was part of
a divine plan of retribution. There I was, hungry and tired, standing
on a sidewalk in downtown Toronto, and that name from the past still had
the power to make me feel guilty. I wished she would stop snickering and
just give me my sausage -- even though I figured it would have a big rock
in it that would chip my tooth.

After what seemed like forever, the lady finally told me Jez
is Polish for "porcupine."

"I see," I said, perhaps a little too curtly -- by now I was getting
impatient with her, and really just wanted my food.

As she slipped the sausage into the bun, she laughed some more and said
the word also has another meaning: a grouchy, surly person.

I noticed that the underside of the sausage was a little charred.
I considered asking for another one, or at least demanding a discount.
But instead I muttered something intended to be pleasant, and took a bite.
To my surprise, the sausage tasted pretty good.

More about My Namesake, the Porcupine

"When approached, the North American
porcupine presents its rear to the enemy; if attacked, it drives its
powerful tail against the assailant. The quills are easily detached
from its skin and remain embedded in the attacker." --
Encyclopaedia
Britannica

In an
article on Polish education, Marta Zahorska-Bugaj gives a much
more passive, less flattering depiction of porcupine behavior: "When
a porcupine encounters something unusual, it rolls into a ball, extends
its spikes, stops moving, and tries to wait out the unknown."
She contrasts the behavior of the porcupine with that of the fox,
which "tries to slide through, avoiding threats, but also trying as
much as possible to take advantage of the new situation."

Show, Don't (Just)
TellWhen writing a short story or an academic essay, show,
don't just tell your readers what you want them to know.
There. I've just told you something. Pretty lame,
huh? Now, let me show you.

Crisis
vs. Conflict
Good stories are built, not around crises (emergencies), but rather
conflict -- a clash of wills, a difficult
moral choice, an internal mental struggle.
These are the human dimensions that make the reader care about
the people involved in the crisis.